'OiM^ 


UniversityofCalifomia  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 

MR.  SHELDON  CHENEY 


DES     IMAGISTES 


«Kal  xefva  SixsXi,  /.al  iv  AlTvatottotv  sxatl^sv 
i6(jt,  xal  jJiéXoç  yhs  t6  Awpiov.)) 

ExiToéçtoç  Biwvoç 

"And  she  also  was  of  Sikilia  and  was  gay  in 
the  valleys  of  JEtna,  and  knew  the  Doric 
singing." 


DES    IMAGISTES 


AN  ANTHOLOGY 


^ 


NEW    YORK 

ALBERT  AND  CHARLES  BONI 

96  FIFTH  AVENUE 

1914 


Copyright,  1914 

By 

Albert  and  Charles  Boni 


CONTENTS 

Richard  Aldington 

Choricos    -------------------     7 

To  a  Greek  Marble lo 

Au  Vieux  Jardin n 

Lesbia    ------------------^-12 

Beauty  Thou  Hast  Hurt  Me  Overmuch  -  -  -  13 

Argyria I4 

In  the  Via  Sestina i5 

The  River 16 

Bromios    -----------  —  ___--_  17 

To   Atthis 19 

H,  D. 

Sitalkas 20 

Hermès  of  the  Ways    I 21 

Hermès  of  the  Ways  H 22 

Priapus 24 

Acon 26 

Hermonax 28 

Epigram 30 

F.  S.  Flint 

I 31 

n  Hallucination 32 

ni -  -  -  33 

IV 34 

V  The  Swan 35 


Skipwith  Cannell 

Nocturnes 36 

Amy  Lowell 

In  a  Garden 38 

William  Carlos  Williams 

Postlude 3Q 

James  Joyce 

I  Hear  an  Army 40 

EZRA  POUND 

Acopta      -------------------  -^i 

The  Return 42 

After  Ch'u  Yuan 43 

Liu  Ch'e 44 

Fan-Piece  for  Her  Impérial  Lord 45 

Ts'ai  Chi'h 46 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

In  the  Little  Old  Market-Place 47 

Allen  Upward 

Scented  Leaves  from  a  Chinese  Jar 51 

John  Cournos  after  K.  Tetmaier 

The  Rose 54 

Documents 

To  Hulme  (T.  E.)  and  Fitzgerald 57 

Vates,  the  Social  Reformer 59 

Fragments  AddressedbyCIearchus  H.  toAldi  -  62 

Bibliography     63 


CHORICOS 

The  ancient  songs 

Pass  deathward  mournfully. 

Cold  lips  that  sing  no  more,  and  withered  wreaths, 

Regretful  eyes,  and  drooping  breasts  and  wings — 

Symbols  of  ancient  songs 

Mournfully  passing 

Down  to  the  great  white  surges, 

Watched  of  none 

Save  the  f rail  sea-birds 

And  the  lithe  pale  girls, 

Daughters  of  Okeanus. 

And  the  songs  pass 

From  the  green  land 

Which  lies  upon  the  waves  as  a  leaf 

On  the  flowers  of  hyacinth  ; 

And  they  pass  from  the  waters, 

The  manifold  winds  and  the  dim  moon, 

And  they  come, 

Silently  winging  through  soft  Kimmerian  dusk, 

To  the  quiet  level  lands 

That  she  keeps  for  us  ail, 

That  she  wrought  for  us  ail  for  sleep 

In  the  silver  days  of  the  earth's  dawning — 

Proserpina,  daughter  of  Zeus. 

And  we  turn  from  the  Kuprian's  breasts, 


And  we  turn  from  thee, 

Phoibos  Apollon, 

And  we  turn  from  the  music  of  old 

And  the  hills  that  we  loved  and  the  meads, 

And  we  turn  from  the  fiery  day, 

And  the  lips  that  were  over  sweet; 

For  silently 

Brushing  the  fields  with  red-shod  feet, 

With  purple  robe 

Searing  the  flowers  as  with  a  sudden  flame, 

Death, 

Thou  hast  corne  upon  us. 

And  of  ail  the  ancient  songs 

Passing  to  the  swallow-blue  halls 

By  the  dark  streams  of  Persephone, 

This  only  remains  : 

That  we  turn  to  thee, 

Death, 

That  we  turn  to  thee,  singing 

One  last  song. 

O  Death, 

Thou  art  an  healing  wind 

That  blowest  over  white  flowers 

A-tremble  with  dew; 

Thou  art  a  wind  flowing 

Over  dark  leagues  of  lonely  sea; 

Thou  art  the  dusk  and  the  fragrance; 

Thou  art  the  lips  of  love  mournfully  smiling; 


8 


Thou  art  the  pale  peace  of  one 

Satiate  with  old  desires; 

Thou  art  the  silence  of  beauty, 

And  we  look  no  more  for  the  morning* 

We  yearn  no  more  for  the  sun, 

Since  with  thy  white  hands, 

Death, 

Thou  crownest  us  with  the  pallid  chaplets, 

The  slim  colourless  poppies 

Which  in  thy  garden  alone 

Softly  thou  gatherest. 

And  silently, 

And  with  slow  feet  approaching, 

And  with  bowed  head  and  unlit  eyes, 

We  kneel  before  thee: 

And  thou,  leaning  towards  us, 

Caressingly  layest  upon  us 

Flowers  from  thy  thin  cold  hands, 

And,  smiling  as  a  chaste  woman 

Knowing  love  in  her  heart, 

Thou  sealest  our  eyes 

And  the  inimitable  quiétude 

Cornes  gently  upon  us. 

Richard  Aldington 


TO  A  GREEK  MARBLE 

IléTvta,    TuÔTVta 
White  grave  goddess, 
Pity  my  sadness, 

0  silence  of  Paros. 

1  am  not  of  thèse  about  thy  feet, 
Thèse  garments  and  décorum; 

I  am  thy  brother, 

Thy  lover  of  aforetime  crying  to  thee, 

And  thou  hearest  me  not. 

I  hâve  v^hispered  thee  in  thy  solitudes 

Of  our  loves  in  Phrygia, 

The  far  ecstasy  of  burning  noons 

When  the  fragile  pipes 

Ceased  in  the  cypress  shade, 

And  the  brown  fingers  of  the  shepherd 

Moved  over  slim  shoulders; 

And  only  the  cicada  sang. 

I  hâve  told  thee  of  the  hills 

And  the  lisp  of  reeds 

And  the  sun  upon  thy  breasts, 

And  thou  hearest  me  not, 

IIÔTVia,  xÔTVta, 

Thou  hearest  me  not. 

Richard  Aldington 


10 


AU  VIEUX  JARDIN 

I  hâve  sat  hère  happy  in  the  gardens, 

Watching  the  still  pool  and  the  reeds 

And  the  dark  clouds 

Which  the  wind  of  the  upper  air 

Tore  Hke  the  green  leafy  boughs 

Of  the  divers-hued  trees  of  late  summer; 

But  though  I  greatly  delight 

In  thèse  and  the  water  lilies, 

That  which  sets  me  nighest  to  weeping 

Is  the  rose  and  white  colour  of  the  smooth  flag-stones, 

And  the  pale  yellow  grasses 

Among  them. 

Richard  Aldington 


II 


LESBIA 

Use  no  more  speech  now; 

Let  the  silence  spread  gold  hair  above  us 

Fold  on  délicate  fold; 

You  had  the  ivory  of  my  life  to  carve. 

Use  no  more  speech. 

And  Picus  of  Mirandola  is  dead; 
And  ail  the  gods  they  dreamed  and  fabled  of, 
Hermès,  and  Thoth,  and  Christ,  are  rotten  now, 
Rotten  and  dank. 


And  through  it  ail  I  see  your  pale  Greek  face; 
Tenderness  makes  me  as  eager  as  a  little  child 
To  love  you 

You  morsel  left  half  cold  on  Caesar's  plate. 

Richard  Aldington 


12 


BEAUTY  THOU  HAST  HURT  ME  OVERMUCH 

The  light  is  a  wound  to  me. 

The  soft  notes 

Feed  upon  the  wound. 

Where  wert  thou  born 
O  thou  woe 

That  consumest  my  life? 
Whither  comest  thou? 

Toothed  wind  of  the  seas, 
No  man  knows  thy  beginning. 
As  a  bird  with  strong  claws 
Thou  woundest  me, 
O  beautiful  sorrow. 

Richard  Aldington 


13 


ARGYRIA 

O  you, 

O  you  most  fair, 

Swayer  of  reeds,  whisperer 

Among  the  flowering  rushes, 

You  hâve  hidden  your  hands 

Beneath  the  poplar  leaves, 

You  hâve  given  them  to  the  white  waters. 

Swallow-fleet, 

Sea-child  cold  from  waves, 

Slight  reed  that  sang  so  blithely  in  the  wind, 

White  cloud  the  white  sun  kissed  into  the  air; 

Pan  mourns  for  you. 

White  limbs,  white  song, 
Pan  mourns  for  you. 

Richard  Aldington 


14 


IN  THE  VIA  SESTINA 

O  daughter  of  Isis, 

Thou  standest  beside  the  wet  highway 

Of  this  decayed  Rome, 

A  manifest  harlot. 

Straight  and  slim  art  thou 
As  a  marble  phallus; 
Thy  face  is  the  face  of  Isis 
Carven 

As  she  is  carven  in  basait. 
And  my  heart  stops  with  awe 
At  the  présence  of  the  gods, 

There  beside  thee  on  the  stall  of  images 
Is  the  head  of  Osiris 
Thy  lord. 

Richard  Aldington 


15 


THE  RIVER 


I  drifted  along  the  river 
Until  I  moored  my  boat 
By  thèse  crossed  trunks. 

Hère  the  mist  moves 

Over  fragile  leaves  and  rushes, 

Colourless  waters  and  brown  fading  hills. 

She  has  corne  from  beneath  the  trees, 
Moving  within  the  mist, 
A  floating  leaf. 

II 

O  blue  flower  of  the  evening, 
You  hâve  touched  my  face 
With  your  leaves  of  silver. 

Love  me  for  I  must  départ. 

Richard  Aldington 


i6 


BROMIOS 

The  withered  bonds  are  broken. 
The  waxed  reeds  and  the  double  pipe 
Clamour  about  me; 
The  hot  wind  swirls 
Throiigh  the  red  pine  trunks. 

lo!  the  fauns  and  the  satyrs. 

The  touch  of  their  shagged  curled  fur 

And  blunt  horns! 

They  hâve  wine  in  heavy  craters 

Painted  black  and  red; 

Wine  to  splash  on  her  white  body. 

lo! 

She  shrinks  from  the  cold  shower — 

Afraid,  afraid! 

Let  the  Maenads  break  through  the  niyrtles 
And  the  boughs  of  the  rohododaphnai. 
Let  them  tear  the  quick  deers'  flesh. 
Ah,  the  cruel,  exquisite  fingers! 

lo! 

I  hâve  brought  you  the  brov^n  clusters, 
The  ivy-boughs  and  pine-cones. 

Your  breasts  are  cold  sea-ripples, 
But  they  smell  of  the  warm  grasses. 


17 


Throw  wide  the  chiton  and  the  péplum, 

Maidens  of  the  Dew. 

Beautiful  are  your  bodies,  O  Maenads, 

Beautiful  the  sudden  folds, 

The  vanishing  curves  of  the  white  linen 

About  you. 

lo! 

Hear  the  rich  laughter  of  the  forest, 

The  cymbals, 

The  trampling  of  the  panisks  and  the  centaurs. 

Richard  Aldington. 


i8 


TO  ATTHIS 

(After  the  Manuscript  of  Sappho  now  in  Berlin) 

Atthis,  far  from  me  and  dear  Mnasidika, 

Dwells  in  Sardis; 

Many  times  she  was  near  us 

So  that  we  lived  life  well 

Like  the  far-famed  goddess 

Whom  above  ail  things  music  delighted. 

And  now  she  is  first  among  the  Lydian  women 
As  the  mighty  sun,  the  rose-fingered  moon, 
Beside  the  great  stars. 

And  the  light  fades  from  the  bitter  sea 

And  in  like  manner  from  the  rich-blossoming  earth; 

And  the  dew  is  shed  upon  the  flowers, 

Rose  and  soft  meadow-sweet 

And  many-coloured  melilote. 

Many  things  told  are  remembered  of  stérile  Atthis. 

I  yearn  to  behold  thy  délicate  soûl 
To  satiate  my  désire.     .     .     . 


Richard  Aldington 


19 


SITALKAS 

Thou  art  corne  at  length 
More  beautiful 
Than  any  cool  god 
In  a  chamber  under 
Lycia's  far  coast, 
Than  any  high  god 
Who  touches  us  not 
Hère  in  the  seeded  grass. 
Aye,  than  Argestes 
Scattering  the  broken  leaves. 

H.  D. 


20 


HERMES  OF  THE  WAYS 

I 

The  hard  sand  breaks, 
And  the  grains  of  it 
Are  clear  as  wine. 

Far  off  over  the  leagites  of  it, 

The  wind, 

Playing  on  the  wide  shore, 

Piles  little  ridges, 

And  the  great  waves 

Break  over  it. 

But  more  than  the  many-foamed  ways 

Of  the  sea, 

I  know  him 

Of  the  triple  path-ways, 

Hermès, 

Who  awaiteth. 

Dubious, 

Facing  three  ways, 
Welcoming  wayfarers, 
He  whom  the  sea-orchard 
Shelters  from  the  west, 
From  the  east 
Weathers  sea-wind; 
Fronts  the  great  dunes. 


21 


Wind  rushes 

Over  the  dunes, 

And  the  coarse,  salt-crusted  grass 

Answers. 

Heu, 

It  whips  round  my  ankles! 

II 
Small  is 

This  white  stream, 
Flowing  below  ground 
From  the  poplar-shaded  hill, 
But  the  water  is  sweet. 

Apples  on  the  small  trees 

Are  hard, 

Too  small, 

Too  late  ripened 

By  a  desperate  sun 

That  struggles  through  sea-mist. 

The  boughs  of  the  trees 

Are  twisted 

By  many  bafflings; 

Twisted  are 

The  small-leafed  boughs. 

But  the  shadow  of  them 

Is  not  the  shadow  of  the  mast  head 

Nor  of  the  torn  sails. 


22 


Hermès,  Hermès, 
The  great  sea  foamed, 
Gnashed  its  teeth  about  me; 
But  you  hâve  waited, 
Where  sea-grass  tangles  with 
Shore-grass. 

H.  D. 


23 


PRIAPUS 
Keeper-of-Orchards 

I  saw  the  first  pear 

As  it  fell. 

The  honey-seeking,  golden-banded, 

The  yellow  swarm 

Was  not  more  fleet  than  I, 

(Spare  us  from  loveliness!) 

And  1  fell  prostrate, 

Crying, 

Thou  hast  flayed  us  with  thy  blossoms; 

Spare  us  the  beauty 

Of  fruit-trees! 

The  honey-seeking 
Paused  not, 

The  air  thundered  their  song, 
And  I  alone  was  prostrate. 

0  rough-hewn 
God  of  the  orchard, 

1  bring  thee  an  ofïering; 
Do  thou,  alone  unbeautiful 
(Son  of  the  god), 

Spare  us  from  loveliness. 

The  fallen  hazel-nuts, 

Stripped  late  of  their  green  sheaths, 


24 


The  grapes,  red-purple, 
Their  berries 
Dripping  with  wine, 
Pomegranates  already  broken, 
And  shrunken  fig, 
And  quinces  untouched, 
I  bring  thee  as  offering, 

H.  D. 


5*5 


ACON 
(After  Joannes  Baptista  Amaltheus) 


Bear  me  to  Dictaeus, 
And  to  the  steep  slopes; 
To  the  river  Erymanthus. 

.1  choose  spray  of  dittany, 
Cyperum  frail  of  flower, 
Buds  of  myrrh, 
AU-healing  herbs, 
Close  pressed  in  calathes. 

For  she  lies  panting, 
Drawing  sharp  breath, 
Broken  with  harsh  sobs, 
She,  Hyella, 
Whom  no  god  pitieth. 

II 

Dryads, 

Haunting  the  groves, 

Nereids, 

Who  dwell  in  wet  caves, 

For  ail  the  whitish  leaves  of  olive-branch, 

And  early  roses, 

And  ivy  wreathes,  woven  gold  berries, 

Which  she  once  brought  to  your  altars, 


26 


Bear  now  ripe  fruits  from  Arcadia, 
And  Assyrian  wine 
To  shatter  her  fever. 

The  light  of  her  face  falls  from  its  flower, 

As  a  hyacinth, 

Hidden  in  a  far  valley, 

Perishes  upon  burnt  grass. 

Pales, 

Bring  gifts, 

Bring  your  Phoenician  stuffs, 

And  do  you,  fleet-footed  nymphs, 

Bring  offerings, 

Illyrian  iris, 

And  a  branch  of  shrub. 

And  frail-headed  poppies. 

H.  D. 


27 


HERMONAX 

Gods  of  the  sea; 

Ino, 

Leaving  warm  meads 

For  the  green,  grey-green  fastnesses 

Of  the  great  deeps; 

And  Palemon, 

Bright  striker  of  sea-shaft, 

Hear  me. 

Let  ail  whom  the  sea  loveth, 

Corne  to  its  altar  front, 

And  I 

Who  can  ofïer  no  other  sacrifice  to  thee 

Bring  this. 

Broken  by  great  waves, 

The  wavelets  flung  it  hère, 

This  sea-gliding  créature, 

This  strange  créature  like  a  weed, 

Covered  with  sait  foam, 

Torn  from  the  hillocks 

Of  rock. 

I,  Hermonax, 
Caster  of  nets, 
Risking  chance, 
Plying  the  sea  craft, 
Came  on  it. 


28 


Thus  to  sea  god 
Cometh  gift  of  sea  wrack; 
I,  Hermonax,  offer  it 
To  thee,  Ino, 
And  to  Palemon. 

H.  D. 


29 


EPIGRAM 

(After  the  Greek) 

The  golden  one  is  gone  from  the  banquets; 
She,  beloved  of  Atimetus, 
The  swallow,  the  bright  Homonoea: 
Gone  the  dear  chatterer. 

H.  D. 


30 


London,  my  beautiful, 

it  is  not  the  sunset 

nor  the  pale  green  sky 

shimmering  through  the  curtain 

of  the  silver  birch, 

nor  the  quietness  ; 

it  is  not  the  hopping 

of  birds 

upon  the  lawn, 

nor  the  darkness 

stealing  over  ail  things 

that  moves  me. 

But  as  the  moon  creeps  slowly 

over  the  tree-tops 

among  the  stars, 

I  think  of  her 

and  the  glow  her  passing 

sheds  on  men. 

London,  my  beautiful, 

I  will  climb 

into  the  branches 

to  the  moonlit  tree-tops, 

that  my  blood  may  be  cooled 

by  the  wind. 

F.  S.  Flint 


31 


II 

HALLUCINATION 

I  know  this  room, 

and  there  are  corridors: 

the  pictures,  I  hâve  seen  before; 

the  statues  and  those  gems  in  cases 

I  hâve  wandered  by  before, — 

stood  there  silent  and  lonely 

in  a  dream  of  years  ago. 

I  know  the  dark  of  night  is  ail  around  me; 
my  eyes  are  closed,  and  I  am  half  asleep. 
My  wife  breathes  gently  at  my  side. 

But  once  again  this  old  dream  is  within  me, 
and  I  am  on  the  threshold  waiting, 
wondering,  pleased,  and  fearful. 
Where  do  those  doors  lead, 
what  rooms  lie  beyond  them? 
I  venture.  ... 

But  my  baby  moves  and  tosses 

from  side  to  side, 

and  her  need  calls  me  to  her. 

Now  I  stand  awake,  unseeing, 

in  the  dark, 

and  I  move  towards  her  cot.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  reach  her  .  .  .  There  is  no  direction.  .  .  . 

I  shall  walk  on.  .  .  .  p   3    Flint 


32 


III 

Immortal?  .  .  .  No, 

they  cannot  be,  thèse  people, 

nor  I. 

Tired  faces, 

eyes  that  hâve  never  seen  the  world, 

bodies  that  hâve  never  lived  in  air, 

lips  that  hâve  never  minted  speech, 

they  are  the  clipped  and  garbled, 

blocking  the  highway. 

They  swarm  and  eddy 

between  the  banks  of  glowing  shops 

towards  the  red  méat, 

the  potherbs, 

the  cheap jacks, 

or  surge  in 

before  the  swift  rush 

of  the  clanging  trams, — 

pitiful,  ugly,  mean, 

encumbering. 

Immortal?  ... 

In  a  wood, 

watching  the  shadow  of  a  bird 

leap  from  frond  to  frond  of  bracken, 

I  am  immortal. 

But  thèse? 

F.  S.  Flint 


33 


IV 

The  grass  is  beneath  my  head; 

and  I  gaze 

at  the  thronging  stars 

in  the  night. 

They  fall  .  .  .  they  fall.  .  .  . 
I  am  overwhelmed, 
and  afraid. 

Each  leaf  of  the  aspen 
is  caressed  by  the  wind, 
and  each  is  crying. 

And  the  perfume 
of  invisible  roses 
deepens  the  anguish. 

Let  a  strong  mesh  of  roots 
feed  the  crimson  of  roses 
upon  my  heart; 
and  then  fold  over  the  hoUow 
where  ail  the  pain  was. 

F.  S.  Flint 


34 


THE   SWAN 

Under  the  lily  shadow 
and  the  gold 
and  the  blue  and  mauve 
that  the  whin  and  the  lilac 
pour  down  on  the  water, 
the  fishes  quiver. 

Over  the  green  cold  leaves 
and  the  rippled  silver 
and  the  tarnished  copper 
of  its  neck  and  beak, 
toward  the  deep  black  water 
beneath  the  arches, 
the  swan  floats  slowly. 

Into  the  dark  of  the  arch  the  swan  floats 
and  into  the  black  depth  of  my  sorrow 
it  bears  a  white  rose  of  flame. 

F.  S.  Flint 


35 


NOCTURNES 

I 

Thy  feet, 

That  are  like  little,  silver  birds, 
Thou  hast  set  upon  pleasant  ways; 
Therefore  I  will  follow  thee, 
Thou  Dove  of  the  Golden  Eyes, 
Upon  any  path  will  I  follow  thee, 
For  the  light  of  thy  beauty 
Shines  before  me  like  a  torch. 


II 


Thy  feet  are  white 

Upon  the  foam  of  the  sea; 

Hold  me  fast,  thou  bright  Swan, 

Lest  I  stumble, 

And  into  deep  waters. 

III 

Long  hâve  I  been 

But  the  Singer  beneath  thy  Casement, 

And  now  I  am  weary. 

I  am  sick  with  longing, 

O  my  Belovéd; 

Therefore  bear  me  with  thee 

Swiftly 

Upon  our  road. 


36 


IV 

With  the  net  of  thy  hair 

Thou  hast  fished  in  the  sea, 

And  a  strange  fish 

Hast  thou  caught  in  thy  net; 

For  thy  hair, 

Belovéd, 

Holdeth  my  heart 

Within  its  web  of  gold. 


I  am  weary  with  love,  and  thy  lips 
Are  night-born  popies. 
Give  me  therefore  thy  lips 
That  I  may  know  sleep. 

VI 

I  am  weary  with  longing, 

I  am  faint  with  love; 

For  upon  my  head  has  the  moonlight 

Fallen 

As  a  sword. 

Skipwith  Cannell 


37 


IN  A  GARDEN 

Gushing  from  the  mouths  of  stone  men 

To  spread  at  ease  under  the  sky 

In  granite-lipped  basins, 

Where  iris  dabble  their  feet 

And  rustle  to  a  passing  wind, 

The  water  fills  the  garden  with  its  rushing, 

In  the  midst  of  the  quiet  of  close-clipped  lawns. 

Damp  smell  the  ferns  in  tunnels  of  stone, 
Where  trickle  and  plash  the  fountains, 
Marble  fountains,  yellowed  with  much  water. 

Splashing  down  moss-tarnished  steps 

It  falls,  the  water; 

And  the  air  is  throbbing  with  it; 

With  its  gurgling  and  running; 

With  its  leaping,  and  deep,  cool  murmur. 

And  I  wished  for  night  and  you. 

I  wanted  to  see  you  in  the  swimming-pool, 

White  and  shining  in  the  silver-flecked  water. 

While  the  moon  rode  over  the  garden, 

High  in  the  arch  of  night, 

And  the  scent  of  the  lilacs  was  heavy  with  stillness. 

Night  and   the   water,   and  you   in   your   whiteness, 
bathing  ! 

Amy  Lowell 


38 


POSTLUDE 

Now  that  I  hâve  cooled  to  you 

Let  there  be  gold  of  tarnished  masonry, 

Temples  soothed  by  the  sun  to  ruin 

That  sleep  utterly. 

Give  me  hand  for  the  dances, 

Ripples  at  Philse,  in  and  out, 

And  lips,  my  Lesbian, 

Wall  flowers  that  once  were  flame. 

Your  hair  is  my  Carthage 

And  my  arms  the  bow 

And  our  words  arrows 

To  shoot  the  stars, 

Who  from  that  misty  sea 

Swarm  to  destroy  us. 

But  you're  there  beside  me 

Oh,  how  shall  I  defy  you 

Who  wound  me  in  the  night 

With  breasts  shining 

Like  Venus  and  like  Mars? 

The  night  that  is  shouting  Jason 

When  the  loud  eaves  rattle 

As  with  waves  above  me 

Blue  at  the  prow  of  my  désire  ! 

O  prayers  in  the  dark  ! 

O  incense  to  Poséidon! 

Calm  in  Atlantis. 

William  Carlos  Williams 


39 


I  HEAR  AN  ARMY 

I  hear  an  army  charging  upon  the  land, 

And  the  thunder  of  horses  plunging;  foam  about  their 

knees : 
Arrogant,  in  black  armour,  behind  them  stand, 
Disdaining  the  rains,  with  fluttering  whips,  the  Char- 

ioteers. 

They  cry  into  the  night  their  battle  name: 

I   moan   in   sleep   when   I   hear   afar   their   whirling 

laughter. 
They  cleave  the  gloom  of  dreams,  a  bHnding  flame, 
Clanging,  clanging  upon  the  heart  as  upon  an  anvil. 

They  corne  shaking  in  triumph  their  long  grey  hair  : 
They  corne  out  of  the  sea  and  run  shouting  by  the 

shore. 
My  heart,  hâve  you  no  wisdom  thus  to  despair? 
My  love,  my  love,  my  love,  why  hâve  you  left  me 

alone  ? 

James  Joyce 


40 


A'OPIA 

Be  in  me  as  the  etemal  moods 

of  the  bleak  wind,  and  not 
As  transient  things  are — 

gaiety  of  flowers. 
Hâve  me  in  the  strong  loneliness 

of  sunless  clifïs 
And  of  grey  waters. 

Let  the  gods  speak  softly  of  us 
In  days  hereafter, 

The  shadowy  flowers  of  Orcus 
Remember  Thee. 

EZRA   POUND 


41 


THE  RETURN 

See,  they  return;  ah,  see  the  tentative 
Movements,  and  the  slow  feet, 
The  trouble  in  the  pace  and  the  uncertain 
Wavering  ! 

See,  they  return,  one,  and  by  one, 
With  fear,  as  half-awakened  ; 
As  if  the  snow  should  hesitate 
And  murmur  in  the  wind 

and  half  turn  back; 
Thèse  were  the  "Wing'd-with-Awe," 
Inviolable. 

Gods  of  the  winged  shoe! 
With  them  the  silver  hounds 

sniffing  the  trace  of  air! 
Haie!  Haie! 

Thèse  were  the  swift  to  harry; 
Thèse  the  keen-scented  ; 
Thèse  were  the  soûls  of  blood. 


Slow  on  the  leash, 

pallid  the  leasfi-men! 


EZRA    POUND 


42 


AFTER  CWU  YUAN 

I  will  get  me  to  the  wood 

Where  the  gods  walk  garlanded  in  wisteria, 

By  the  silver-blue  flood  move  others  with  ivory  cars. 

There  corne  forth  many  maidens 

to  gather  grapes  for  the  léopards,  my  friend. 
For  there  are  léopards  drawing  the  cars. 

I  will  walk  in  the  glade, 

I  will  corne  out  of  the  new  thicket 

and  accost  the  procession  of  maidens. 

EZRA   POUND 


43 


LIU  CH'E 

The  rustling  of  the  silk  is  discontinued, 

Dust  drifts  over  the  courtyard, 

There  is  no  sound  of  footfall,  and  the  leaves 

Scurry  into  heaps  and  lie  still, 

And  she  the  rejoicer  of  the  heart  is  beneath  them  : 

A  wet  leaf  that  clings  to  the  threshold. 

EZRA   POUND. 


44 


FAN-PIECE  FOR  HER  IMPERIAL  LORD 

O  fan  of  white  silk, 

clear  as  frost  on  the  grass-blade, 
You  also  are  laid  aside. 

EZRA  POUND 


45 


TS'AI  CHFH 

The  petals  fall  in  the  fountain, 

the  orange  coloured  rose-leaves, 
Their  ochre  clings  to  the  stone. 

EZRA   POUND. 


46 


IN  THE  LITTLE  OLD  MARKET-PLACE 
(To  the  Memory  of  A.  V.) 

It  rains,  it  rains, 

From  gutters  and  drains 

And  gargoyles  and  gables: 

It  drips  from  the  tables 

That  tell  us  the  tolls  upon  grains, 

Oxen,  asses,  sheep,  turkeys  and  fowls 

Set  into  the  rain-soaked  wall 

Of  the  old  Town  Hall. 

The  mountains  being  so  tall 

And  forcing  the  town  on  the  river, 

The  market's  so  small 

That,  with  the  wet  cobbles,  dark  arches  and  ail, 

The  owls 

(For  in  dark  rainy  weather  the  owls  fly  out 

Well  before  four),  so  the  owls 

In  the  gloom 

Hâve  too  little  room 

And  brush  by  the  saint  on  the  fountain 

In  veering  about. 

The  poor  saint  on  the  fountain  ! 
Supported  by  plaques  of  the  giver 
To  whom  we're  beholden; 
His  name  was  de  Sales 
And  his  wife's  name  von  Mangel. 


47 


(Now  is  he  a  saint  or  archangel?) 

He  stands  on  a  dragon 

On  a  bail,  on  a  column 

Gazing  up  at  the  vines  on  the  mountain: 

And  his  falchion  is  golden 

And  his  wings  are  ail  golden. 

He  bears  golden  scales 

And  in  spite  of  the  coils  of  his  dragon,  without  hint 

of  alarm  or  invective 
Looks  up  at  the  mists  on  the  mountain. 

(Now  what  saint  or  archangel 

Stands  winged  on  a  dragon, 

Bearing  golden  scales  and  a  broad  bladed  sword  ail 

golden  ? 
Alas,  my  knowledge 
Of  ail  the  saints  of  the  collège, 
Of  ail  thèse  glimmering,  olden 
Sacred  and  misty  stories 
Of  angels  and  saints  and  old  glories  .  .  . 
Is  sadly  defective.) 
The  poor  saint  on  the  fountain  ... 

On  top  of  his  column 

Gazes  up  sad  and  solemn. 

But  is  it  towards  the  top  of  the  mountain 

Where  the  spindrifty  haze  is 

That  he  gazes? 

Or  is  it  into  the  casement 

Where  the  girl  sits  sewing? 

There's  no  knowing. 


48 


Hear  it  rain! 

And  from  eight  leaden  pipes  in  the  bail  he  stands  on 

That  bas  eigbt  leaden  and  copper  bands  on, 

Tbere  gurgle  and  drain 

Eight  driblets  of  water  down  into  the  basin. 

And  he  stands  on  bis  dragon 

And  the  girl  sits  sewing 

High,  very  high  in  her  casement 

And  before  her  are  many  géraniums  in  a  parket 

Ail  growing  and  blowing 

In  box  upon  box 

From  the  gables  right  down  to  the  basement 

With  frescoes  and  carvings  and  paint  .  .  . 

The  poor  saint! 

It  rains  and  it  rains, 

In  the  market  there  isn't  an  ox, 

And  in  ail  the  emplacement 

For  waggons  there  isn't  a  waggon, 

Not  a  stall  for  a  grape  or  a  raisin, 

Not  a  soûl  in  the  market 

Save  the  saint  on  bis  dragon 

With  the  rain  dribbling  down  in  the  basin, 

And  the  maiden  that  sews  in  the  casement. 

They  are  still  and  alone, 
Mutterseeîens  alone, 

And  the  rain  dribbles  down  from  bis  heels  and  bis 
crown. 


49 


From  wet  stone  to  wet  stone. 

It's  grey  as  at  dawn, 

And  the  owls,  grey  and  fawn, 

Call  from  the  little  town  hall 

With  its  arch  in  the  wall, 

Where  the  fire-hooks  are  stored.  , 

From  behind  the  flowers  of  her  casement 

That's  ail  gay  with  the  carvings  and  paint, 

The  maiden  gives  a  great  yawn, 

But  the  poor  saint — 

No  doubt  he's  as  bored  ! 

Stands  still  on  his  column 

Uplifting  his  sword 

With  never  the  ease  of  a  yawn 

From  wet  dawn  to  wet  dawn  .  .  . 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


50 


SCENTED  LEAVES  FROM  A  CHINESE  JAR 

THE  BITTER  PURPLE  WILLOWS 

Meditating  on  the  glory  of  illustrious  lineage  I  lifted 
up  my  eyes  and  beheld  the  bitter  purple  willows  grow- 
ing  round  the  tombs  of  the  exalted  Mings. 

THE   GOLD   FISH 

Like  a  breath  from  hoarded  musk, 
Like  the  golden  fins  that  move 
Where  the  tank's  green  shadows  part — 
Living  flames  out  of  the  dusk — 
Are  the  lightning  throbs  of  love 
In  the  passionate  lover's  heart. 

THE  INTOXICATED  POET 

A  poet,  having  taken  the  bridle  ofï  his  tongue,  spoke 
thus:  "More  fragrant  than  the  héliotrope,  which 
blooms  ail  the  year  round,  better  than  vermilion  letters 
on  tablets  of  sendal,  are  thy  kisses,  thou  shy  one  !'* 

THE   JONQUILS 

I  hâve  heard  that  a  certain  princess,  when  she  f  ound 
that  she  had  been  married  by  a  démon,  wove  a  wreath 
of  jonquils  and  sent  it  to  the  lover  of  former  days. 


SI 


THE   MERMAID 

The  sailor  boy  who  leant  over  the  side  of  the  Junk 
of  Many  Pearls,  and  combed  the  green  tresses  of  the 
sea  with  his  ivory  fingers,  believing  that  he  had  heard 
the  voice  of  a  mermaid,  cast  his  body  down  between 
the  waves. 


THE    MIDDLE    KINGDOM 

The  emperors  of  fourteen  dynasties,  clad  in  robes  of 
yellow  silk  embroidered  with  the  Dragon,  wearing  gold 
diadems  set  with  pearls  and  rubies,  and  seated  on 
thrones  of  incomparable  ivory,  hâve  ruled  over  the 
Middle  Kingdom  for  four  thousand  years. 


THE  MILKY  WAY 

My  mother  taught  me  that  ever>'  night  a  procession 
of  junks  carrying  lanterns  moves  silently  across  the 
sky,  and  the  water  sprinkled  from  their  paddles  falls 
to  the  earth  in  the  form  of  dew.  I  no  longer  believe 
that  the  stars  are  junks  carrying  lanterns,  no  longer 
that  the  dew  is  shaken  from  their  oars. 


THE  SEA-SHELL 

To  the  passionate  lover,  whose  sighs  corne  back  to 
him  on  every  breeze,  ail  the  world  is  like  a  murmuring 
sea-shell. 


52 


THE   SWALLOW  TOWER 

Amid  a  landscape  flickering  with  poplars,  and  netted 
by  a  silver  stream,  the  Swallow  Tower  stands  in  the 
haunts  of  the  sun.  The  winds  out  of  the  four  quarters 
of  heaven  corne  to  sigh  around  it,  the  clouds  forsake 
the  zénith  to  bathe  it  with  continuons  kisses.  Against 
its  sun-worn  walls  a  sea  of  orchards  breaks  in  white 
foam;  and  from  the  battlements  the  birds  that  Ait 
below  are  seen  Hke  fishes  in  a  green  moat.  The  Win- 
dows of  the  Tower  stand  open  day  and  night;  the 
winged  Guests  corne  when  they  please,  and  hold  com- 
munication with  the  unknown  Keeper  of  the  Tower. 

Allen  Upward 


53 


THE  ROSE 

I  remember  a  day  when  I  stood  on  the  sea  shore  at 
Nice,  holding  a  scarlet  rose  in  my  hands. 

The  calm  sea,  caressed  by  the  sun,  was  brightly 
garmented  in  blue,  veiled  in  gold,  and  violet,  verging 
on  silver. 

Gently  the  waves  lapped  the  shore,  and  scatter- 
ing  into  pearls,  emeralds  and  opals,  hastened  towards 
my  feet  with  a  monotonous,  rhythmical  sound,  like  the 
prolonged  note  of  a  single  harp-string. 

High  in  the  clear,  blue-golden  sky  hung  the  great, 
burning  dise  of  the  sun. 

White  seagulls  hovered  above  the  waves,  now 
barely  touching  them  with  their  snow-white  breasts, 
now  rising  anew  into  the  heights,  like  butterflies  over 
the  green  meadows  .  .  . 

Far  in  the  east,  a  ship,  trailing  its  smoke,  glided 
slowly  from  sight  as  though  it  had  foundered  in  the 
waste. 

I  threw  the  rose  into  the  sea,  and  watched  it, 
caught  in  the  wave,  receding,  red  on  the  snow-white 
foam,  paler  on  the  emerald  wave. 

And  the  sea  continued  to  return  it  to  me,  again 
and  again,  at  last  no  longer  a  flower,  but  strewn  petals 
on  restless  water. 

So  with  the  heart,  and  with  ail  proud  things.  In 
the  end  nothing  remains  but  a  handful  of  petals  of 
what  was  once  a  proud  flower  .  .  . 

John  Cournos  after  K.  Tetmaier 


54 


DOCUMENTS 


TO  HULME  (T.  E.)  AND  FITZGERALD 

Is  there  for  feckless  poverty 

That  grins  at  ye  for  a'  that  ! 

A  hired  slave  to  none  am  I, 

But  under-fed  for  a'  that; 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

The  toils  I  shun  and  a'  that, 

My  name  but  mocks  the  guinea  stamp, 

And  Pound's  dead  broke  for  a'  that. 


Ahhough  my  linen  still  is  clean, 
My  socks  fine  silk  and  a'  that, 
Although  I  dine  and  drink  good  wine- 
Say,  twice  a  week,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
My  tinsel  shows  and  a'  that, 
Thèse  breeks  '11  no  last  many  weeks 
'Gainst  wear  and  tear  and  a'  that. 

Ye  see  this  birkie  ca'ed  a  bard, 
Wi'  cryptic  eyes  and  a'  that, 
Aesthetic  phrases  by  the  yard  ; 
Ifs  but  E.  P.  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
My  verses,  books  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  means 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 


57 


One  man  will  make  a  novelette 
And  sell  the  same  and  a'  that. 
For  verse  nae  man  can  siller  get, 
Nae  editor  maun  fa'  that. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
Their  royalties  and  a'  that, 
Wib  time  to  loaf  and  will  to  write 
m  stick  to  rhyme  for  a'  that. 

And  ye  may  prise  and  gang  your  ways 

Wi'  pity,  sneers  and  a'  that, 

I  know  my  trade  and  God  has  made 

S  orne  men  to  rhyme  and  a'  that, 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 

I  maun  gang  on  for  a'  that 

Wi'  verse  to  verse  until  the  hearse 

Carts  off  me  wame  and  a'  that. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CENACLE  OF  igOQ  VIDE  INTRO- 
DUCTION TO  "the  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  T.  E. 
HULME,"   PUBLISHED  AT  THE   END  OF   "RIPOSTES." 


S8 


VATES,  THE  SOCIAL  REFORMER 

What  shall  be  said  of  him,  this  cock-o'-hoop  ? 
(Tm  just  a  trifle  bored,  dear  God  of  mine, 
Dear  unknown  God,  dear  chicken-pox  of  Heaven, 
Tm  bored  I  say),  But  still — my  social  friend — 
(One  has  to  be  familiar  in  one's  discourse) 
While  he  was  puffing  out  his  jets  of  wit 
Over  his  swollen-bellied  pipe,  one  thinks, 
One  thinks,  you  know,  of  quite  a  lot  of  things. 

(Dear  unknown  God,  dear,  queer-faced  God, 
Queer,  queer,  queer,  queer-faced  God, 
You  blanky  God,  be  quiet  for  half  minute, 
And  when  l've  shut  up  Rates,  and  sat  on  Naboth, 
l'il  tell  you  half  a  dozen  things  or  so.) 

There  goes  a  flock  of  starlings — 

Now  half  a  dozen  years  ago, 

(Shut  up,  you  blighted  God,  and  let  me  speak) 

I  should  hâve  hove  my  sporting  air-gun  up 

And  blazed  away — and  now  I  let  'em  go — 

It's  odd  how  one  changes; 

Yes,  that's  High  Germany. 

But  still,  when  he  was  smiling  like  a  Chinese  queen, 

Looking  as  queer  (I  do  assure  you,  God) 

As  any  Chinese  queen  I  ever  saw; 

And  tiddle-whiddle-whiddling  about  prose, 

Trying  to  quiz  a  mutton-headed  poetaster, 


59 


And  choking  ail  the  time  with  politics — 

Why  then  I  say,  I  contemplated  him 

And  marveled   (God!  I  marveled, 

Write  it  in  prose,  dear  God.    Yes,  in  red  ink.) 

And  marveled,  as  I  said, 

At  the  stupendous  quantity  of  mind 

And  the  amazing  quality  thereof. 

Dear  God  of  mine, 

It's  really  most  amazing,  doncherknow, 

But  really,  God,  I  can't  get  off  the  mark  ; 

Look  hère,  you  queer-faced  God, 

This  fellow  makes  me  sick  with  ail  his  talk, 

His  ha'penny  gibes  at  Celtic  bards 

And  followers  of  Dante — honest  folk! — 

Because,  dear  God,  the  rotten  beggar  goes 

And  makes  a  Chinese  blue-stocking 

From  half-digested  dreams  of  Munich-air. 

And  then — God,  why  should  I  write  it  down? — 

But  Rates  and  Naboth 

Aren't  half  such  silly  fools  as  he  is  (God) 

For  they  are  frankly  asinine, 

While  he  prétends  to  sanity, 

Modernity,  (dear  God,  dear  God). 

It's  bad  enough,  dear  God  of  mine, 

That  you  hâve  set  me  down  in  London  town, 

Endowed  me  with  a  tattered  velvet  coat. 

Soft  collar  and  black  hat  and  Greek  ambitions; 

You  might  hâve  left  me  there. 


60 


But  now  you  send 

This  *Vates"  hère,  this  sage  social  reformer 

(Yes,  God,  you  rotten  Roman  Catholic) 

To  put  his  hypothetical  conceptions 

Of  what  a  poor  young  poetaster  would  think 

Into  his  own  damned  shape,  and  then  to  attack  it 

To  his  own  great  contemplative  satisfaction. 

What  hâve  I  donc,  O  God, 

That  so  much  bitterness  should  flop  on  me? 

Social  Reformer!   That's  the  beggar's  name. 

He'd  hâve  me  write  bad  novels  like  himself. 

Yes,  God,  I  know  it's  after  closing  time; 

And  yes,  I  know  l've  smoked  his  cigarettes; 

But  watch  that  sparrow  on  the  fountain  in  the  rain. 

How  half  a  dozen  years  ago, 

(Shut  up,  you  blighted  God,  and  let  me  speak) 

I  should  hâve  hove  my  sporting  air-gun  up 

And  blazed  away — and  now  I  let  him  go — 

It's  odd  how  one  changes; 

Yes,  that's  High  Germany. 

R.  A. 


6i 


FRAGMENTS    ADDRESSED    BY   CLEARCHUS 
H.  TO  ALDI 


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(rjpatAav  fièv  éyw  a£6£v,  'AlU,  xdXac  xoTa)^ 
*iv  ÔYjafi  dvS  6e  'Eî^pa  utaxépç 

TaT    ÛIX    (7£TÇ    [1£    VtpEŒT    TO    IJ££XtVY 

(à  Se  KXéapxoç  eIxs)* 
iq  6e  7tXa<j(jtx.aX  *pu6[jL  ôcp  6s  paps  axsexsç, 
*Q  6e  ôvax(i)xsv  œxssxsç 
*EXXevix. 


Notes.  (1)  A  vehicle  conducting  passengers  from  Athens, 
the  capital  of  Greece,  to  the  temple  of  the  winds, 
which  stands  in  a  respectable  suburb. 

(2)  Rendered  by  Butler,  "O  God!     O  Montréal!" 

(3)  Sappho!!!!!! 

(4)  Xenophon's  Anabasis. 

F.  M.  H. 


62 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

F.  S.  Flint— *The  Net  of  the  Stars."  Published  by 
Elkin  Mathews,  4  Cork  St.,  London,  W. 

EzRA  PouND — Collected  Poems  (Personae,  Exulta- 
tions, Canzoni,  Ripostes).  Published  by  Elkin 
Mathews. 

TRANSLATIONS  : 

"The  Sonnets  and  Ballate  of  Guido  Cavalcanti." 
Published  by  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.     Boston. 

The  Canzoni  of  Arnaut  Daniel.     R.  F.  Seymour 
&  Co.,  Fine  Arts  Bldg.,  Chicago. 

PROSE  : 

"The    Spirit    of    Romance."      A    study    of 
mediaeval  poetry.     Dent  &  Sons.     London. 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer — "Collected  Poems."  Pub- 
lished by  Max  Goschen,  20  Gt.  Russel  St.,  Lon- 
don. Forty  volumes  of  prose  with  various  pub- 
lishers. 

Allen  Upward— Author  of  "The  New  Word,"  "The 
Divine   Mystery,"   etc.,   etc. 

The  "Scented  Leaves"  appears  in  "Poetry"  for 
September  19 13. 

William  Carlos  Williams — "The  Tempers."  Pub- 
lished by  Elkin  Mathews. 

Amy  Lowell — "A  Dôme  of  Many  Coloured  Glass." 
Published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin.     Boston. 


63 


